


Festival Fortunes

by Serenade



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Comfort Food, Gen, Halloween, Harvest Festival, Pre-Canon, Tarot Readings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-28 08:09:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21133475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenade/pseuds/Serenade
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale attend a village market and get their fortunes told.





	Festival Fortunes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [opalmatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalmatrix/gifts).

"I'm not responsible for Halloween," Crowley declared. "You can't pin this one on me."

Aziraphale examined a plastic pumpkin with a handle. "What do you suppose this is for?"

"Parting fools from their money. It's a bucket, only three times the price." Crowley gestured at the kids running around with those pumpkins full of sweets.

They had been asked by their respective superiors to take note and report back. It was no hardship to wander through a village market on a crisp October evening, with the smell of wood smoke and roast chestnuts and toffee apples. It was a strange mishmash of cultures: the imported commercial holiday, the traditional harvest festival, and the ancient pagan rituals.

Take the corn dolls. Made of the last sheaf of grain to be cut in the harvest, to house the spirit of the corn until it could be replanted in spring. A harmless folk custom. But there was something unnerving in all those rows of dolls, waiting. They had built wicker men in the old days, to burn as sacrifice to the old gods.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale said. "I think we've been spotted."

It was too late. They were surrounded.

"Trick or treat!" the children chorused. They held out their buckets, rattling them meaningfully.

"… What if I say 'trick'?" Crowley said. He hoped the glint in his eyes suggested that, in a war of pranks, he intended to come out on top.

Aziraphale hastily dug in his pockets, and brought out a handful of boiled toffees. "Here you go!"

The children looked unimpressed, like they wanted to shake him down for better sweets. Before they could launch their attack, Crowley flung his arms wide, raining down a shower of chocolate truffles. The children shrieked with delight as they ran around gathering them.

"Oh, _Crowley_," Aziraphale said, in a way that made him feel like he had a gooey caramel centre.

Crowley shrugged. "Just encouraging gluttony."

The children moved on to their next target, like a swarm of locusts that had stripped bare the fields.

Crowley and Aziraphale wandered on, investigating the food and drink stalls for suspicious activity. They sampled the cinnamon apple cider, the mulled spiced wine, and various other concoctions. Crowley pretended he liked his coffee as black as his soul, but he had a secret fondness for frothy sweet drinks. (He had been put out when Hell gave him a commendation for inventing the frappuccino. It was not an abomination, whatever they said.) Still, some things were clearly unacceptable.

"This latte," Crowley said, "tastes nothing like a pumpkin. I'm telling you, it's just an excuse to jack up prices. Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale was no longer listening. A black tent painted with silver stars stood at the end of the stalls. A banner proclaimed, LEARN THE SECRETS OF YOUR DESTINY. Aziraphale drifted towards it, like a paperclip pulled to a magnet.

Crowley groaned.

Aziraphale collected books of prophecy, but he was fascinated by all kinds of divination. Ever since ancient times: in Sumer and Egypt, in Assyria and Babylon. Augury. Pyromancy. Casting runes. Seeing the future in a bowl of water or in the movement of stars. (Although he had been relieved when reading entrails went out of vogue.)

If Crowley happened to be around, he was dragged along. ("It's no fun by myself," Aziraphale said. "You know that.") Once, in a Brighton Pier arcade, he made Crowley get a fortune scroll from a sinister mannequin in a glass booth. (Even Crowley refused to take responsibility for those machines. Diabolical was an inadequate word to describe them.)

Crowley followed Aziraphale under the awning. It was useless to persuade him otherwise. He wondered what this fortune teller did. If there was a crystal ball, he could manifest startling apparitions, to hilarious reactions from the humans, and a reproving look from Aziraphale. In addition, being supernatural entities, they could distort reality by their very presence. They knew better now than to let a human read their palms or look into their minds.

Inside the tent, tea light candle holders threw star shapes on the walls. The air was filled with the haze of incense, the fragrance of potpourri, and the soothing strains of meditation music. A deck of tarot cards lay on a satin tablecloth. The fortune teller peered at her clients from beneath a silver wig and a sequined scarf. "Welcome, friends, if you seek to know the future. Mystic Morgana will read your fate."

Another way of parting fools from their money, Crowley thought. Not that prophets didn't exist, but Aziraphale should know they were unlikely to be hawking their wares at a village market.

Aziraphale seated himself, tugging Crowley down beside him. "Would you please read both of us?"

"Cross my palm with silver," the fortune teller intoned.

Crowley put a hand over Aziraphale's before he could summon up a florin or a sesterce. He pointed to a sign saying "£5". He dug into his pockets for the coins. In for a penny, in for several pounds, apparently.

The fortune teller drew three cards for Crowley. "This is your past. This is your present. And this is your future."

(They used to play cards with tarot decks. For someone who had no poker face, Aziraphale won a surprising proportion of the time. Crowley had never outright accused Aziraphale of cheating, but he had strongly hinted that no one was that lucky all the time.

Aziraphale had been offended at the suggestion. "I would never use my sleight-of-hand for base gambling. It's against the code of the magicians."

Crowley believed him only because he had seen Aziraphale attempt card tricks.)

The fortune teller turned over the first card. A man walking on the edge of a cliff, oblivious to his peril. "The Fool. This card represents unexpected changes and new beginnings."

She turned over the second card. A woman encircled by greenery, guarded by four beasts at the corners. "The World. This card represents rewards and success."

She turned over the third card. A familiar figure, horned and winged, wielding flames. "The Devil."

Crowley shivered despite himself. Just random chance. Still ominous.

"Don't be alarmed," the fortune teller assured him. "This card represents fear of the future. It doesn't mean the literal Devil."

Crowley was fairly certain that his fear of the future involved the literal Devil.

The fortune teller drew three cards for Aziraphale. "This is your past. This is your present. And this is your future." She turned them over one by one.

The Fool. The World. The Devil.

There was a lengthy silence as everyone stared at the cards.

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said at last, "but we paid for two readings."

"I gave you two readings," the fortune teller said, licking her lips nervously.

"This is the same," Aziraphale said. "You used the same cards."

"You have the same fate."

This was getting ridiculous. Crowley put more money down. "We want a do over."

He watched closely to make sure the fortune teller shuffled the deck well. When she laid them out and turned them over, all the cards were the same as before.

The fortune teller stared at Crowley and Aziraphale, eyes wide. "Who are you people?"

"Never mind," Crowley said, heart in his throat. He did a quick memory wipe of the last ten minutes, and they beat a hasty retreat from the tent.

"Well, wasn't that peculiar," Aziraphale said.

Crowley let out a strangled croak. "Peculiar? Is that what you call it?" The Devil meant the Antichrist. Armageddon. The end of the world. No escaping this destiny. They were doomed.

Aziraphale shrugged. "Whatever happens, it'll happen for both of us. 'Same cards, same fate.'"

Crowley refrained from pointing out that they were in the same apocalypse but on opposite sides. He knew that Heaven and Hell were supposed to battle it out for the fate of the world, but he could no more imagine taking up a sword against Aziraphale than he could imagine, well, suddenly pushing him into a puddle. He suspected Aziraphale felt the same way. They had too much in common.

Crowley pushed down those gloomy thoughts about the end of the world. It was impossible and unreal. Not like this autumn evening, full of food and warmth and company.

Aziraphale perked up. "Ooh, look at that!" His footsteps drew him to yet another stall. He came back a minute later, with a black cardboard box stamped with a red dragon logo.

"Split a fortune cookie with me?" Aziraphale said. It was a transparent ruse. He was going to end up opening all of them anyway. Whether to read fortunes until he found one he wanted, like picking love-me-not flowers, or to have an excuse to polish off the cookies, Crowley didn't know. Possibly both.

"All right."

They pulled it apart like a wishbone. It snapped in two, crumbs dusting their fingers. Aziraphale took out the paper slip and read aloud, "'Be patient: in time, even an egg will walk.'"

"Well, that's a new one." Crowley bit into his half of the cookie. Sweet and crunchy, with a hint of caramel.

They shared the box between them, nibbling on cookies and reading out fortunes.

"'Someone close to you will surprise you.'" Aziraphale cast him a sideways look. "What do you have up your sleeve, you wily serpent?"

"Wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, angel," Crowley said. He was unaccountably pleased that he was the "someone close to you". Even if it was in the vein of "keep your friends close and your enemies closer".

They sat down on a wooden bench, watching the parade of festival goers. Children dressed as ghosts, witches, and devils. Adults carrying jack-o'-lanterns with cheerfully glowing faces. Stalls selling jars of preserves, pumpkin pies, corn on the cob, and of course, all kinds of apples. The setting sun shone through red leaves like stained glass. From somewhere nearby, there rose the scent of smoke and the crackle of flames. Any excuse for a bonfire.

Not all the demons in Hell, nor all the angels in Heaven, really _got_ this place the way the two of them did. Year after year, they watched the humans harvest the bounty of autumn, brave the teeth of winter, and await the promise of spring. Humans had hope. They knew the world turned in its seasons, ever since they walked out the gates of the garden, into the cycle of life and death and rebirth.

_To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven…_

Crowley cracked open another fortune cookie. "'Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be.'"

Aziraphale said, "Oh, that's lovely."

"Sentimental tosh," Crowley scoffed. Was it the Beatles? It sounded like the Beatles.

"It's not so bad, is it, Halloween?" Aziraphale said, comfortably. "We should do this again next year."

Crowley wanted there to be a next year. He wanted there to be many more next years. He wanted to complain about dubious trade practices, and make fun of bizarre traditions, and be tempted to indulgence by an angel. He wanted to see what the humans would come up with, so endlessly inventive, and he wanted to see it with someone who appreciated it too.

"Yeah, why not," Crowley said.


End file.
